15 Apr 2016 – Orphan
Religion sold as cheap jacks’ wares
where there’s no room for any truth
a bumper-sticker can’t contain,
and every ancient voice is turned
to sell the latest boutique faith.
The prophets of the golden calf
preach fearlessly their simple texts:
One – God helps those who help themselves,
Two – look out first for number one,
Three – free bread only spoils the poor.
Strong binding forces of the soul
decay as pirouette’s forget
eternal subatomic steps
and I can feel as seasons change
the loosened reins of lovelessness.
Sea and sky still echo azure,
chlorophyll still greens the planet,
still my eyes see smoke and bloodshed.
Teeth are bared and shine at daybreak,
weapons raised to fight back famine.
What contaminants here gathered
transmute every good to evil,
mocking all men once deemed holy,
casting off what fathers taught us,
laughing loud – as doom is falling?
Would that I could find my village
where the bells still call the faithful,
simple goodness still has honor,
those who worship gold aren’t trusted,
people loved – for being people.